by Mara Wells
Lance’s face fell. “You don’t trust me.”
She gnawed on her knuckle. “How do I agree without hurting your feelings?”
His eyes shuttered. “You don’t. But you trust Sherry. After everything.”
Carrie bristled. “She’s clean now. Has been for almost three years.”
Lance gazed at her, face rearranged into a blank canvas on which she projected all her insecurities and fear of being judged.
“You can stay.” She slumped into a kitchen chair, a spindly contraption she’d bought mainly because it didn’t take up much space. “I’ll stay, too. We’ll run through a typical evening. Next time, you can be on your own.”
“You sent me a very detailed text about the good-night routine. I’m pretty sure I can handle it.” He adjusted the booster seat back to its original height, and Oliver giggled when it squeaked.
She jumped on his hesitancy. “Pretty sure?”
“Very sure.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll even take apart this ridiculous chair and figure out why it’s making that noise. I got this, Carrie. Go on your date.”
Her phone buzzed, startling Carrie out of the chair. “My shoes!” She dashed away but was back in a few minutes, hopping on one foot while she harnessed her other foot into a strappy stiletto. “Call if you need me.” She hopped over and kissed Oliver on the head. “Dinner’s in the fridge. Warm it up on the stove. Not in the microwave!” She hopped her way to the front door, shouting directions every step of the way.
In the entry, she checked her hair in the mirror. Still wet, but she would take Lance’s advice and leave it down. Mostly because she didn’t have time to do anything else and unwinding a bun at the end of the night to find the hair still damp inside was too gross. Her date was already at the bar a few streets over, waiting for her. She ordered a Lyft—even a few blocks was too far to walk in these heels—smoothed a hand down the front of her dress, grabbed her evening clutch, and closed the door behind her. She wished the click didn’t sound quite so final.
* * *
“We got this!” Lance called out, too late. The door had already slammed shut. He looked at his son. “Well, big guy, what do you want to do tonight?”
Oliver opened his mouth and pointed, urgency in his mystery movements.
“What is it, Oliver? You’re hungry?” Lance turned to the refrigerator, wondering what Carrie’d left them to eat. He didn’t have the greatest memories of her cooking—mostly, they ate a lot of takeout—so was expecting to find some prepackaged kid-friendly food. Chicken fingers, maybe, or fries. He was pleasantly surprised to find stacks of plastic containers with various kinds of pasta and vegetables to choose from. He was contemplating one in red sauce versus one in white sauce when he heard Oliver coughing.
“Hang on. You okay?” Lance spun, a container of pasta in each hand. Why choose? They could eat both. “Dinner is almost ready.”
Oliver was half in, half out of the kitchen and had turned at Lance’s words. He opened his mouth like he was going to respond. Instead, projectile vomit that looked to be composed mostly of semidigested Cheerios flew across the kitchen. Lance’s stomach roiled, and he choked back his own gag reflex.
“That’s about the grossest thing I’ve seen in a long while.” He coughed a few times and, when he no longer felt like vomiting himself, searched under the sink for cleaning supplies.
“I threw up!” Oliver announced with apparent pride. He held a hand to his stomach and wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. Barf bits clung to his skin.
“No kidding.” Lance would be more worried if Oliver didn’t seem so completely fine, like maybe he was even enjoying this little barf-a-palooza. Should he call Carrie? And admit he couldn’t watch his own son for five minutes without her help? No way.
“I threw up a lot!” Oliver admired the trajectory his vomit had taken, ending up next to Lance in front of the stove.
“Good Lord, man, you gotta learn to hold your liquor.” Lance dumped a wad of towels on the floor and scrubbed with his foot. “No fraternity’s going to want you if you can’t keep it in your stomach.”
Oliver’s blue eyes, so much like Lance’s own, rounded like he was saying something important. Lance felt proud. Fatherly advice. That was what he could offer Oliver that Carrie couldn’t. He racked his brain for some child-appropriate wisdom. “And don’t eat bugs.” He nodded sagely, and Oliver nodded along with him.
“Give me one second.” He held up a finger, which Oliver grabbed and shook up and down. Normally, Lance would be down for an elaborate handshake, but not when one person’s hand was spotted with barf that rubbed off onto him. Nice. How did he extract himself without hurting Oliver’s feelings?
When he noticed what looked like a bit of blood on Oliver’s front tooth, Lance used his other hand to dial Sherry’s number. Panic tumbled in his belly until Lance thought he might puke himself. It was only a little red, could be anything. No need to call an ambulance, right? Right? God, hopefully, Sherry would know the right thing to do.
“Lance?” She sounded congested, her voice thick and low.
“Hey, so I’ve got a hypothetical for you.” He was pretty sure that if Oliver were really sick, he wouldn’t be so high-spirited. Then again, he had maybe five minutes of Daddy training, so better safe than sorry.
When he was done describing the various colors in the vomit, Sherry laughed. “Check your texts. I can tell you exactly what happened.”
A picture of Oliver with lipstick all over his face and lipstick tube held high like the Statue of Liberty torch appeared on his phone. Swirls of lipstick decorated the door behind him.
“Carrie texted it to me less than an hour ago. Kid’s an artist.” Her voice grew distant, like she was covering the phone, and she coughed. “So your hypothetical situation is nothing to worry about. He must’ve swallowed some when he painted his teeth. If you could die from eating lipstick, thousands of women would drop dead every day.”
“Women don’t eat it like a lollipop.” Which was kind of what Oliver looked like he was doing in the second photo she sent. That or singing into it like a microphone. Why had Carrie taken pictures instead of ripping it out of his hands? Oh, that was picture three—one very upset Oliver, crying over the loss of his paintbrush and smearing lipstick all the way up into his hair. How did he get it on his knees? And somehow Carrie had erased all evidence of the incident before he arrived? That was some ninja parenting, for sure.
“I really don’t think you need to worry, but if he keeps throwing up or you see blood, call me back.” Cough, cough, cough. “If Carrie were worried, she wouldn’t have gone on her date. Believe me, Oli’s swallowed worse and lived to tell the tale.”
Lance’s stomach muscles, ones he hadn’t realized he was clenching, relaxed. “Good to know. Thanks, Sherry. I didn’t want to bother Carrie.”
“Anytime.” She sneezed and coughed a few more times. “What Carrie doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
“Thanks.” At first, relief swept through Lance. He’d rather Carrie didn’t know that his complete unpreparedness to be a father became apparent in the first five minutes he spent alone with his son. Then he remembered Sherry handing off Beckham to him so casually. How many other secrets was Sherry keeping from her daughter? Should he be concerned? Install nanny cams in Carrie’s condo? Knox would know how to do that kind of thing.
Sherry coughed again, a set of three phlegmy ones. “I’m glad you’re there, Lance. Carrie will never admit it, but she needs more help than I can give. Why, that girl’s whole life is dependent on her having supernatural amounts of energy.”
“I remember.” Lance smiled fondly. It was why they’d gotten a Jack Russell terrier. So much energy. He glanced down at Beckham who was at full terrier attention, watching Oliver’s every move.
“She can’t keep it up forever,” Sherry prophesized darkly, the words made mo
re sinister by a long, hacking cough. “What’s Oli doing now?”
“Beckham, sit!” Oliver shook a finger at the dog. “Stay!” Beckham ignored him, shifting his glance between Lance and the containers of pasta on the floor. Lance must’ve dropped them when Oli started vomiting, but Lance didn’t remember it happening. The white sauce had popped open, and Beckham eyed it hungrily.
“Playing with the dog. Thanks for the assist, Sherry.” He listened to a few more assurances to call her any time before finally hanging up.
“You hungry, Beckham? Me, too. I’m afraid we’ll both have to wait until someone gets cleaned up.” Lance reached for Oliver, intending to sit him on the counter so he could wipe him down with one of the kitchen towels he was sure Carrie had stacked neatly under the sink. Before he had a firm grip on his son, Beckham licked Oliver’s face, his arms, the front of his T-shirt, snarfing up every bit of vomit on the kid.
“Well, that’s handy. Good boy, Beckham.” It was, after all, only the second-grossest thing he’d seen today. Oliver laughed and plopped onto the floor, butt first. Beckham gave him another once-over while Lance quickly cleaned vomit off the refrigerator door and floor. Beckham moved on to the pasta container, slurping up the pasta in white sauce before Lance could decide if he should intervene or not. Well, he hadn’t expected to get through the night with zero casualties, had he? It wasn’t like they were going to eat the food he’d dropped on the floor, and the dog had been very helpful with cleanup duty. He deserved a treat.
Lance checked his watch. It’d been fifteen minutes since Carrie left. He settled in for a long, and likely disgusting, night.
Chapter 13
Beckham’s excited yip startled Lance out of a deep sleep. He bolted up, at first unsure of where he was. Not his place, that was for sure. The couch was far too comfortable to be his. He rubbed an appreciative palm over whatever magic fabric made it feel like he was sitting in dandelion fluff. His eyes fixed on a four-by-six photo of a laughing baby, mouth open and one foot nearly jammed all the way in. Oliver. Carrie. He should’ve known from the dandelion-fluff couch precisely where he was. He had to admit—he missed Carrie’s eye for all the small details that made daily life more comfortable.
“How’d it go?” Carrie entered as she’d left, hopping on one foot. She snagged one sky-high heel and flicked it off, switched her weight to the other foot, and repeated the process with her second shoe. She padded toward him on bare feet, her one concession to Florida heat and humidity being that she never wore pantyhose or tights of any kind. She bent and scratched Beckham’s neck with both hands before landing on the couch a safe two feet from him. “Oli’s asleep? Did he give you any trouble?”
“No trouble at all,” he lied, smoothly if he did say so himself. She wouldn’t notice the excess of missing cleaning supplies. Probably. He’d even done a quick load of laundry, restocking the towel drawer so there was no vomit-covered evidence to incriminate him.
“Really?” She kicked her bare feet up on the tufted ottoman, expertly avoiding the wooden tray stretched across one-third of it. “He can be a handful.”
“Easy-peasy.” Lance brushed his palms together like he hadn’t spent the better part of an hour on his hands and knees, scrubbing her kitchen tiles.
“Then why—” She reached over and pulled something out of his hair. She held it between her thumb and forefinger for him to examine.
“Is it a pea?” He guessed based on the color. It was a green, mashed disk.
She sniffed it and nodded confirmation. Then, she lowered her hand, and Beckham quickly snarfed up the evidence of the dinner gone so horribly wrong. At least Oliver hadn’t barfed that up. “You sure you don’t have anything to tell me?”
“Nope.” He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back. “The peas were delicious. Just ask Beckham.”
She laughed and picked another squashed pea out of his hair. “Is my son also covered in peas?”
“Absolutely not. I’m embarrassed to admit that of the two of us, I was the messy eater.” Lance scrubbed a hand down the side of his face and found another pea. Son of a—
“I don’t doubt it.” Carrie crossed her ankles and sank back into her dandelion-fluff sofa. She let out a long sigh and closed her eyes.
“How’d it go for you?” He hated that he wanted to know. It was really none of his business. But between scrubbing various substances off every surface of the kitchen, bathing Oliver—a task that left him nearly as wet as the kid in the tub—and valiantly reading Chicka Chicka Boom Boom so many times he could now recite it from memory, he’d wondered where Carrie was and what she was doing. And with whom. Had the guy walked her to the door? Had they kissed on the front step while he cluelessly napped only twenty or so feet away? Was the guy Adam? He squeezed his eyes against the images, but they were in his head, so he couldn’t escape.
Carrie cracked one eye open and rolled her head in his direction. “You really want to know?”
“I do.” Stupid word choice. Out of context. “Not that I do, obviously. I meant I do want to know.”
She smiled. “I understood the first time.” Her eyes drifted closed again. “It was fine. They’re almost always fine. Nice guy, nice meeting place. Nice conversation.”
“Sounds”—he searched for the exact right word—“nice.”
Without opening her eyes, she reached out and smacked his arm. “Exhaustingly nice. Don’t get me wrong. Mr. Fourteen was a big improvement over Mr. Thirteen.”
Lance immediately didn’t like either one of these bozos. “Why? What did Mr. Thirteen do?”
“Nothing.” Her chest rose and fell in another long sigh. “They’re all perfectly nice. Or fine. Or whatever word means I am so damn tired of explaining what an interior designer is that I might say yes to a second date simply not to have that conversation again.”
“Wait.” Lance propped his feet next to hers on the ottoman and bounced his little toe against the side of her foot. She had such long, slender feet that led to long, slender legs, and—he cut off that train of thought. What were they talking about again? Oh yeah. “You haven’t been on a second date yet?”
She bopped him back, eyes still closed but smiling now. “I’m waiting to feel that zing.”
“Zing?”
“You know.” Her toe rubbed the side of his foot. “You remember the zing.”
Lance closed his own eyes. Yeah, he remembered. He’d still been working for Carlos back then, having recently been promoted to construction manager and already planning to start his own company. The client was on-site, a private home where they’d been hired to build a guest cottage in the backyard. Mr. Ramos, the owner, was all smiles, happy with their progress and showing it off to a young woman Lance first assumed was Ramos’ second or third wife. She’d been so serious, though, nodding her head and taking notes in a small flowered notebook. Also, she wasn’t dressed like a trophy wife, like Lance’s mother or his stepmother. She’d worn a simple leaf-green dress that turned her hazel eyes a mottled green, and when those eyes met his, he’d lost his breath for a moment.
Ramos introduced her as the interior designer, and she’d offered her hand to shake. First Carlos, then him. She’d said something polite. He’d responded, equally polite. They’d walked the site together, and by the time she climbed into her sturdy compact car, he had her number. He’d texted her as she was driving away. She’d texted him back at the first stop sign. They were married three months later.
So yeah, zing. He remembered. Sometimes, he wished he didn’t, at least not so acutely. But there it was. Carrie was his zinger.
Their feet now rested against each other, and he took pleasure in sliding his toe against hers. “Zing, zing, huh? Still feel it?” He wasn’t admitting that he did unless she said it first.
She dipped her head, dark hair falling to create a curtain between them. “Maybe I’m too picky. That’s wha
t Farrah—you remember her, right?—says whenever I complain to her. She says sometimes you don’t know until the second or third date about chemistry.”
Lance liked Farrah, Carrie’s old friend from childhood. They’d often gone out with Farrah and her girlfriend. He wondered now if she and Vanessa ever married like they’d planned. Now didn’t seem the time to ask about friends he’d lost in the divorce, especially if those friends were dishing questionable advice. “If you don’t feel it, you don’t feel it. A second or third date won’t change that.”
“That’s what I think, too.” Carrie tucked hair behind her ear and covered a yawn with her hand. “Maybe Farrah has a point, though. Maybe I should give one of them a second chance.”
Lance ignored the tightening in his stomach and kept his voice light. “Why? You got one in mind?”
“No, but I do have a spreadsheet.” She grabbed her phone off the ottoman and flicked it open to show him.
“Of course you do.”
Once Carrie started working for that fancy design firm in Miami, she upped her game from flowered notebooks to laptops and spreadsheets.
Lance peered over her shoulder. “Show me.”
Her finger trailed the side of the phone. “Name, number, where we went. First impressions.”
The comments surprised a chuckle out of him. #4: Too loud—where’s his volume control? #8: Rude to waiter—if you’re gonna be an ass, at least pay the ass tax and tip 25 percent. #10: Harvard? Yeah, right.
“My love life is laughable these days.” Carrie let the phone fall to the couch.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a rating system.” Lance picked up the phone and scrolled through the spreadsheet, squinting at the comments he didn’t like. #3: Nice eyes. #5: Those abs! #9: Super nice, sweet. And then in another box directly under the comment: but old enough for my mom.
“What do you mean?”
